Rage Against the Dying of the Light
by LornaWinters
Summary: Tristan was the son of two worlds. When tragedy shatters everything he knows, he vows he will change it at any cost. Along the way, he meets a friend he didn't know he had...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

-Dylan Thomas

* * *

Outside the castle window the autumn leaves were falling. The tepid summer air was changing to the cool breeze that would eventually become the winter chill. Tristan tip-toed into his parents' room. It wasn't forbidden for him to be there; but at the same time, he had not obtained permission and therefore had no business. He was there because he was curious.

There was a chest underneath the bed. Inside, he knew, was his father's uniform from when he served as a commander in the Romulan Star Navy. His father had let him see it only once, and Tristan wanted to see it again. It had been gnawing at him for months. But each time he asked, his father would respond with "Not today, my son." The inquisitiveness mounted, until at last he succumbed to the temptation.

Like many ten-year-olds, he idolized his father, and wanted to grow up to be just like him. Nearly every evening, he eagerly hung on his every word when he told him stories of his old warbird, the _Greenclaw_. His father was a decorated hero who had fought in the Dominion War, before Tristan was born. Aside from battle stories, he also liked to tell his son the story of how he fell in love with his mother.

Tristan was the son of two worlds. His mother was the former regent of his home, Nua Breizh. The Bretons, as his mother's people called themselves, were a throwback to humans several hundred years before the founding of the Federation. Before the War, it had been explained to him that neither of his parents' worlds had had much contact with the Federation. In fact, his father's people had outright sought to conquer it.

Already, Tristan was stronger than any of the other boys he knew. Even so, it took all of his strength to pull the heavy wooden chest out from under the bed. It scraped loudly across the floor. He paused for several grueling seconds to see if the sound had been heard. After a while, he breathed a sigh of relief.

There was no lock, as the contents had never been meant to be hidden from him. The silver of the fabric flickered in the waning light shining through the windows. In awe, he ran his fingers over the Imperial emblem: a raptor clutching two orbs in its talons. _Romulus and Remus_, he remembered his father telling him.

The bird's mouth was open in an eternal shriek. He read the inscription at the top of the insignia: _Beware the fury of the Rihannsu!_ The boy felt a strange stirring in his soul. It was as though the eagle was calling him, urging him to join his father's people. He and his father were the only Romulans who resided permanently on Nua Breizh. Though they were accepted without reservation, there still were times when it was hard to be different.

Tristan slipped the tunic over his head. The material was coarse and rough; it was the garment of a warrior. At the bottom of the box was a dagger. On its hilt was the same bird-of-prey. He examined himself in his mother's floor-length mirror. The uniform was naturally much too large for the lad. But he would grow into it someday. Yes, the time would come when his shoulders would be as wide and strong as his father's.

He gritted his teeth. His green eyes flashed. "Beware the fury of the Rihannsu!" he growled at his reflection. And then the door in the mirror slowly opened. He started.

"Tristan," the man gently chided, "You didn't ask to take out my things."

The child swallowed. "Forgive me, father. It's just that…well I wanted to see it again."

"Wanting to do something is not a justification for disobedience," he reminded his son firmly.

Tristan bit his lip. "Yes, sir. I will do better," he promised.

"See that you do. Now put it away," he commanded.

"Yes, sir."

The Romulan sat on the bed while his son reverently folded the clothing. "So," he said, "you wish to join the Star Navy, do you?"

"Oh, yes, father!" he exclaimed eagerly.

For the first time, his father smiled. "You aren't old enough yet, so you have plenty of time to make that decision."

"But I already have," Tristan insisted, "I want to be a war hero, just like you."

Bochra considered his son's words. "Not all glory is found on the battlefield, Tristan. Do not wish for war. It appears exciting and glorious when it begins. But by the time it is over, no one remembers what it was all about anymore."

Tristan had never heard his father speak in this manner before, and as a result he was puzzled. "But you and mother went to war," he pointed out, careful to keep his tone respectful.

"Yes," he answered patiently, "But that was because we had to. And there are things we both regret about it. Nua Breizh was nearly destroyed during that war. When you are older, you will better understand."

_But why can't I understand now?_ he wanted to whine. He knew his father would remind him about his self-control again, however.

"Father? Will to take me to Romulus some day?" he asked as he closed the lid.

The man blinked. "You yearn to go there?" Tristan nodded. "Of course you would," Bochra mused, half to himself. "It is in your blood, as it is in mine. Yes, Tristan, I will take you there as soon as I can."

The child threw himself into his father's arms. "I love you, _mon __père_."

He laughed and held on to the boy tightly. "I love you, too, _mon fils_." He helped him push the chest back under the bed. "Come," he said, "We have a guest."

Tristan followed his father to the grand hall. His mother was already there, speaking to a man with dark skin. He was wearing a Starfleet uniform.

The man turned and smiled when Tristan and his father walked through the door. "Hey, Bochra," he greeted his father, "Good to see you again!"

Bochra shook his hand. "Likewise, Geordi," he returned. "This is Mr. LaForge," he introduced the man. "Geordi, this is my son, Tristan."

Mr. LaForge was grinning from ear to ear. "He looks just like you, Bochra," he chuckled. To Tristan, he said, "Nice to meet you." He shook his hand, just as though he were a grown man.

Tristan smiled proudly. "My father has told me much about you, Mr. LaForge," he said.

"Oh," LaForge winced, "Hope it was all good…"

The boy tilted his head in confusion. "What else is there?" he asked.

The human laughed. "Just a joke, kid."

"I see," Tristan laughed with him.

"Go play with your cousins while Mr. LaForge and I talk," said Bochra.

"_Oui, mon __père_," the boy responded as he ran off.

Before he left the room, he heard LaForge ask his father, "He speaks French?"

"_And _Romulan," Bochra added proudly.

But Tristan was out the door before he heard them say anything else. Outside in the twilight, his cousins were playing in the leaves. _Someday_, he thought as he jumped into a huge pile, _I'm going to be just like my father…_


	2. Chapter 1

_Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

__-Dylan Thomas

* * *

Ten years later...

It was as though everything was conspiring against him. The reason everyone he knew was gathered together that day was bad enough. But now, it had started to rain. The falling drops soon turned into a downpour, soaking the crowd dressed in black.

Tristan hardly felt the chilling drops hit him. His skin was numb; his heart was numb. He had been like this for nearly four days. That was how long it had been since his father died. It was all so painfully surreal.

Next to him, his mother shivered. She had locked herself in her room for the past three days, unable to bear the grief of her husband's death. For a time, Tristan feared he would never see her alive again, either. She had always been a pillar of strength to both himself and his father. Now, she was like another person altogether. Tears of sorrow rolled down her face. It was a strange sight to Tristan, as she had never before wept in public.

Tristan did not permit himself to cry. He was half-Romulan. "Romulans don't weep," his father had always told him as a child. And he would not disgrace his memory by doing so now. His mother, of course, was excused: she was a human.

He had a good idea of how much she loved his father. After all, she had sacrificed the throne for him. Everyone had said it was a foolish thing to do, and Lady Guinevere knew it. As a result, Tristan's cousins, the Loiolas, would rule Nua Briezh instead of him.

Not that it mattered. He had always wanted to serve in the Romulan military and become a war hero like his father. This desire was furthered when they took the trip to Romulus together. The sight of the glorious monuments of victory in the capital city of Rateg inspired him. By the time he was old enough to enroll, however, Bochra had succeeded in talking him out of it. "Not all glory is found on the battlefield," he would say, "One day, a woman will capture your heart, and then you will understand."

At his parents' urging, Tristan had entered the university at Cap La Lotte, to learn the field of diplomacy. As a member of the royal family, his position as a future ambassador was already secured. He was in his third year of study. Everything was progressing along according to plan.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Tristan felt his entire world collapse around him as he watched his father's casket lowered into the ground. Now, this cemetery would mean something to him. No longer would it be just another landmark on his way from the castle into the town of San Mihael. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The whole thing was wrong. Being a warrior, his father shouldn't have died a senseless death from exposure to some unknown energy anomaly. Even dying of old age was a far better way to go. Tristan had once overheard his father express his disappointment that he would in all likelihood outlive his wife. No one had ever thought that it would be she who would bury him.

* * *

The next morning, Tristan ate breakfast with his mother. It relieved him to see her finally eat. He watched her intently as she slowly put each spoonful into her mouth. She refused to look at him, and he knew exactly why: he was the spitting image of his father. It hurt him a little, but he understood.

Once satisfied that she had taken in enough nourishment, he helped her back to bed. He had never doubted that she loved him, so he knew she would come around eventually. In the meantime, she needed her space to grieve.

He went out to walk through the garden. He needed some fresh air so that he could try to make sense of everything. That was the place where it had happened.

Geordi LaForge and Worf were already there, scanning the area.

"Have you learned anything?" he asked them.

LaForge glanced up. "Hmmm. There's mess of...well, they're some sort of temporal disturbance. They're all over the place."

"Temporal?" Tristan asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are particles from many different points in time all converging in this area." He shook his head. "They're harmless now, but when they first appeared they were much stronger...that may be why it happened. I just wouldn't have thought they were strong enough to do that."

Tristan nodded. His father had been essentially torn apart by time itself. "I see. But that doesn't seem natural."

LaForge chose his words carefully. "No...I, um, scanned your father's body before he was buried. From what I can tell, he was exposed to something similar before. I don't know when—it could have been years ago. But there's no way to tell."

"So, you're saying that if he hadn't been exposed to whatever that was the previous time, he wouldn't have died from this?"

The human pressed his lips together. "Yeah, that's what it looks like...I'm sorry, Tristan."

"Is there any way to find out? Maybe there's some way to change this." A small ray of hope shined into his heart.

Geordi closed his tricorder and shook his head. "Not that I know of. Besides, we're Starfleet officers. We can't interfere because of the Prime Directive. I'm sorry."

Tristan felt his blood beginning to boil. _The Prime Directive? _ They would measure some idealistic nonsense against a man's life? _Damn the Federation and their self-righteousness!_ he thought furiously. This was exactly what his parents meant when they said they didn't hold the Federation in a very positive regard. This was why Nua Breizh had chosen not to join them, even after the war. Until now, he had never quite understood why.

LaForge seemed to sense his misgivings. "He was proud of you, you know."

"I hope so." He forced down his anger. He had inherited his mother's temper, but thankfully, he had also gained her willpower.

"He was, believe me." LaForge gave his friend's son an encouraging smile and set off down the path.

Worf, however, stayed behind. At first, he said nothing. Tristan turned to leave him to his privacy.

"Wait," the Klingon said quietly. "There might be a way, but you must not tell anyone you heard about it from me." He stepped forward. "I have heard of a portal, which can control time. It is called the Guardian of Forever. It's on a planet at the edge of Federation space."

Tristan blinked. "Why are you helping me? I thought you and my father hated each other."

"Yes. And no," he admitted. "I don't entirely agree with Geordi's interpretation of the Prime Directive. And," his tone became less harsh, "I lost my father, too—to your father's people actually. But he died a warrior's death. You are right. Bochra's death was not natural. If I were in your place, I would try to change it, too."

"Thank you, Worf. How do I find this planet?" Tristan felt his spirits lifting once more.

"I don't know the exact co-ordinates, but I know it is somewhere in the Ellison system."

"Thank you! Thank you!" He was about to rush off.

"Tristan," Worf stopped him. "He _was _proud of you. I know, I'm a father, too."

"I am in your debt, Worf. I will never forget it. If there's anyway I can repay you, you must tell me."

"There is." The older man sighed. "My son and I have had a...difficult relationship. We have made some progress, but there is still a long way to go. I am proud of my son, and I want to mend the bridge. When you come back, I would appreciate it if the two of you became friends. Perhaps he will listen to you."

Tristan smiled warmly. "It would be my honor, Mr. Worf. I will do my best."

* * *

"Where are you going?" Cahal demanded. "You can't leave now. Your mother needs you!"

Tristan hastily stuffed his clothes into his bag. "There's something I must see to, _oncle_. Besides, I think my presence is too painful for her right now."

"_Merde,_ Tristan! You're as bad as your father! At least tell me where you're going," he pleaded, "and when you plan to be back."

"I'll return as soon as I can," the youth answered. "I can't tell you where I'm going because I made a promise. Take care of my mother for me. _Au revoir_."

Before his uncle could continue his objections, he was out the door. If everything went according to plan, no one would even know he was gone. He didn't know how he would achieve this seemingly impossible task, but he was determined to see it through. He was determined to change his father's fate. It was his hope that this Guardian could not only send him to the point of time in question, but also that it could show him when exactly that point was.

As he hurried down the street to the shuttle port, he glanced over at the graveyard. There was no time to stop, as he had already been delayed too long by arguing with Cahal.

_I'll make things right again, father. For both you and mother_, he promised silently.


	3. Chapter 2

__**A big thanks to thyme2read, BewilderedFemale, and JustaCrazy-Man! And thank you to 0afan0 for your ideas and suggestions!  
**

_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
Because their words had forked no lightning they  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

* * *

It took Tristan two weeks to reach the Federation starbase nearest to the Ellison sector, as it was on the very edge of explored space.

The place was not at all what he expected. It was a dump, to tell the truth. All of the alien trash of the galaxy seemed to have gathered there. But there was one thing it had in its favor. Here it was that he would find a pilot to take him to the planet where he could find the Guardian of Forever.

He was well aware that all information concerning the Guardian was classified. In order to keep from being arrested by Starfleet, he would have to be discreet in his inquiries. As luck would have it, there were peoples from all over the place gathered there—including many Vulcan and Romulan traders. He would have no problems blending in.

The most logical place to start he surmised was the tavern near the spaceport. That's where all of the pilots would surely be gathered.

Tristan entered the public house. Once again, he was surprised by what he saw there. It was not that a bar was an unfamiliar setting to him. It was rather that he hadn't expected a Federation outpost to be like this. According to all of the accounts he had heard—both Romulan and Nua Breizhian—the Federation was filled with mostly do-gooders who never smoked, drank, or swore. In short, he had been led to believe that they didn't know the first thing about living.

Not so with this place. As soon as he entered the room, smoke filled his lungs. And from what he could smell, whatever it was the patrons were smoking could have given anything on Nua Breizh a run for its money. Though Tristan often enjoyed cigars himself, he coughed uncontrollably as the revolting vapor assaulted him.

There wasn't even a hint of synthehol anywhere. No, they were serving only the real stuff as far as he could tell. People of all types were staggering around and vomiting all over the place. Leaning against the wall was a group of women who were most certainly prostitutes. One of them—he had no clue what species she was, or if she was even really a female—smiled at him. Her worn face and rotten teeth made his stomach turn.

"No, thanks," Tristan retorted when she offered her services, "I like girls who sing soprano." It was enough to make him want to join the ancient order of celibate monks who resided in the mountains above San Mihael.

_A la vache!_ he thought. The irony of the whole experience made Tristan laugh to himself, despite the revulsion he felt from his senses. Who would have thought that a Federation station would contain a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than any den of vice either of his home worlds could have ever cooked up?

Despite the fact that nearly all of the hotels were rented on an hourly basis, he managed to find one that wasn't a house of ill-repute. He figured he would have to stay there for at least a few days before an opportunity would present itself. But it was better than being arrested by the Starfleet authorities.

Tristan sat at the bar for all of the first night. He had only a few drinks, as he had to keep his wits about him. A drunk staggered in and asked the bartender for a drink.

"No credit," the large, Wagnerian woman said firmly.

"Listen," he slurred, "I'm gonna be a rich man soon."

"Well, you can come back then," she laughed mockingly.

The wino's demeanor became hostile, and he loomed over the bar. "You don't understand, you wench!"

Without warning, the man next to him threw a punch and knocked him out cold. "That's what you get for insulting a lady!"

"I didn't hear any insults," the bartender shrugged.

"That's cuz you've been working here too long!" roared another drunk at the other end of the bar.

The surrounding chaos never ceased to astonish Tristan. He had never realized how innocent and sheltered he had been before that point. A part of him wished he had been able to stay that way. Every time he thought he had finally seen it all, a new, sickening experience topped the previous one.

Though most of the clientèle didn't seem to mind, Tristan found the tavern to be downright creepy. Most of the lights in the huge, gaudy chandelier were burned out. Instead of being replaced, the owner of the establishment simply added multiple dim lamps. Between that and the thick clouds of smoke, he could hardly see his beverage sitting on the counter in front of him.

The second night, there was a murder. Apparently, some chap didn't like another dude's face. So the two had it out, and one of them killed the other. The scrap got everyone's attention, but as soon as it was over, they all went back to their business as though it was a common occurrence. Tristan was appalled.

"You're not from around here," the bartender observed as she dried a glass.

"I'm only here for a while," he answered, not wishing to reveal any information before he was sure about her.

The woman narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out her customer. She really was a hideous cow. "Ok...So what brings you to these parts?"

"My business is my own."

She smiled deviously. Did everyone have rotten teeth on this forsaken rust bucket? "Ah, so suspicious. You're a Romulan, eh?"

"Half-Romulan," he shrugged, "but who's paying attention to that sort of thing?"

"You're a handsome young devil, whatever you are." She licked her lips. "That's why I'm going to help you."

Tristan flashed a grin he was certain was the epitome of innocence. "Who says I'm looking for help?"

She ignored his denial and leaned forward to whisper to him. Tristan really wished she hadn't. "Don't look now, but that man has been staring at you all night." She inconspicuously pointed with her chin behind him. "He was here last night, too. Just giving you a friendly warning, since you're not from around here."

"Who is he?" He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

"No one seems to know," the woman replied. "Everyone calls him Blondie, though. He showed up out of the blue a few months ago. He started dealing in tobacco, Romulan ale, and loads of other shady crap a romeo like you doesn't want to know about. Doesn't seem interested in leaving, but if you're gettin' by, why mess it up. Right? Of course, right."

"Romulan ale is illegal?"

At first, she seemed to think he was joking. Then she laughed shrewishly. "You really don't get out much do you?"

Tristan smiled sheepishly. "Well, I _am _part Romulan..." he said, dancing around the real issue. He and the barkeep exchanged jokes and laughs for a while. But then she went back to her work, leaving him to wonder about his peculiar stalker.

As soon as he got the chance, he stole a peek at the stranger. He was sitting in the darkest corner of the room, puffing on a fat cigar. The smoldering end glowed each time he inhaled. His partially-illuminated face appeared ghastly, and Tristan hoped it was merely an effect caused by the flicker of the embers. The man seemed to be surrounded by an air of mystery.

From what he could tell, his watcher was human. The strangest thing was that Tristan recognized the tobacco he was smoking. It was an heirloom Earth variety grown extensively on Nua Breizh. The kind he preferred himself, in fact. And he was drinking Romulan ale.

_Best not to examine him too closely_, he reminded himself. The fellow looked dangerous. And after what he had witnessed the night before, he knew it was wise not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary.

On the third night, he finally found a pilot who seemed to show some promise. He was a Ferengi. "How much will you pay?" was naturally his first question.

Before Tristan could answer, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and found himself staring into the face of the weirdest alien he had ever seen. It grunted and growled at him in a language he couldn't understand. He shook his head, trying to ignore it and continue negotiating. But then it started to poke him.

"Stop it," he hissed in annoyance.

"He doesn't like you," said the Ferengi.

"So?"

"Come to think of it, _I _don't like you, either."

Tristan felt his temper starting to rise. "That's _your_ problem. Not mine."

In a rage, the miscreant lunged headlong toward him with a long knife, and Tristan barely whipped his own out in time. The other one pulled out a disruptor, only to have it knocked out of his hand.

Tristan managed to take down the two challengers relatively quickly. "If you're going to shoot, shoot. Don't talk," he said, somewhat shocked by what he had just done.

He didn't know there were other members of the gang close by.

The half-Romulan youth fought well. He was his sword master's most prized pupil, after all. But he was unfortunately outnumbered. Before long, he was on the ground, thinking it was going to be his last night alive. And then, the remaining blackguards were suddenly on the floor next to him, howling in pain.

Tristan looked up to see the mysterious stranger holding his hand out to help him to his feet.


	4. Chapter 3

**Thanks for reading! And thanks to Thyme2read, BewilderedFemale, njmrtl, JustaCrazy-Man, "Senator Vreenak," and "Vreenak's Wife" for those great reviews! And most of all to 0afan0 for your ideas and suggestions!**

* * *

_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright  
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

"Thank you," Tristan said, catching his breath. He looked up to get a glimpse of the man who had just saved his life. "Sir?"

"Who I am is not important," the human said quickly, after he had helped Tristan to his feet.

Despite his appearance in the light of a cigar from far away, the fellow wasn't at all ghastly now that Tristan could see him up close. He was middle aged and slightly overweight, with deep furrows in his face and sorrowful blue eyes. His hair was all gray, but Tristan guessed that it must have been blond once. Hence the name "Blondie."

The people around them in the meantime had gone back to their drinking and carousing, so no one took notice of their conversation.

"Why did you save me, then?" Tristan asked, getting right to the meat of the matter. He had inherited more than his looks from his father.

"Because of who you are."

"Oh?" the younger returned sarcastically. He was grateful to the man, but he couldn't understand why he was beating around the bush. "Who am I, then?"

The elder's face softened slightly. "Well, I don't know your right name. But I do know that you are the son of Lady Guinevere and…Bochra, judging by your appearance," he added with a scowl.

"How do you know that?" Tristan was nearly dumbfounded. "Did you know my parents?"

"I knew your mother," was all he would admit.

Tristan swallowed, somewhat afraid to ask the question that was burning in his mind as a result of that statement. He didn't like this man's familiar tone with regard to her. After all he had seen over the last few days, however, nothing was impossible anymore. "Were you and my mother lovers?" he finally succumbed.

The man smiled sadly and sighed. "I wish the answer to that was yes, but unfortunately, it's no. No," he said again, "she had eyes only for your father. I was never a consideration as far as she was concerned."

Tristan stared at the man for a long time. "So, you saved my life, because you were in love with my mother. Yet you don't want to tell me your name. Why? Are you afraid?" he challenged.

"Are _you_?" the human countered. Then he chuckled softly. "Yes, Bochra is your father, isn't he? But I do see a good deal of Lady Guinevere's personality, too." His face became serious again, as he was still considering whether or not to give the young man the information he desired. "Come," he gestured toward his table.

All the while, a fat Ferengi was hanging from the chandelier, howling wildly like a Bardakian proghorn moose (or so the other customers said), and belting out a song called "Melor Famagal." He didn't finish his serenade, however, as he had had one too many drinks. He passed out and dropped to the floor. Everyone laughed, including the stranger.

_Now, I've seen it all..._ thought Tristan.

The bartender finished cackling and leaned on the counter. "Hey, Blondie, what can I get you now?"

"Well, Miss, it's been a tough day," he grinned back at her. "I think we'll have whatever that gentleman on the floor is having."

"I'll just have a Chartreuse on the rocks," said Tristan, still staring in disgust at the unconscious Ferengi.

"Coming right up!" She scuttled off to get their drinks, but not before giving Tristan a warning look.

"Now, the question is," the man began after they sat down, "what are _you_ doing here? Word on the street is that you want passage to the Ellison system. You know the Federation doesn't allow just any ship to go there?"

The younger man nodded cautiously, and accepted the cigar that was offered to him.

"You're looking for the Guardian of Forever, aren't you?"

"How do you know about that?" Tristan asked. He couldn't deny it, since he knew that his facial expression had already betrayed him.

The man called Blondie leaned forward. "I've been there."

Tristan felt his heart leap. Finally, he had found what he was searching for! But he didn't want to get his hopes up too quickly. He studied the man carefully. "How do I know you aren't lying?" he asked.

"Do you want to go to the Ellison system or not?"

"Yes. Can you bring me there?" His instincts told him that the man wasn't trying to deceive him. And if he truly loved his mother as he claimed, surely he would not wish to harm her only son? Tristan deduced that he had no choice but to trust him.

"Perhaps. Why do you want to go there?"

There was only so far Tristan would be pushed. "I have my reasons."

Blondie studied the youth carefully. "Definitely Bochra's son... Alright, then. What will you pay me?"

"How much do you want?" Tristan knew that he was at a disadvantage in that the man knew he was a member of a royal house. He could only hope that he also knew that his world was still recovering from the considerable amount of destruction that had occurred during the Dominion War. Perhaps he would be reasonable for the sake of his mother.

"A thousand bricks of gold-pressed latinum—all in advance," he said firmly.

"_What?"_ That callous, money-grubbing old blackguard! Love for Lady Guinevere indeed! He could buy his own ship for that much! But Tristan was no pilot, and he didn't know the exact location of the planet. He forced himself to calm back down. Vexation would only cloud his judgment and get him nowhere.

"I have ten bricks with me now," he said evenly, "Then, I will pay you 1,500 upon the successful completion of my business _and_ my return to Nua Breizh." He was well aware of the power of greed as a guard against treachery.

"You'll pay me 2,000 when I return to Nua Breizh," Blondie insisted.

Tristan felt his blood boil. He was desperate, and the old coot knew he had him over a barrel. He would have to call in every favor he and his mother had in order to scrounge up that much of the coveted substance. But he was mostly confident that it could be done. No price was too high for his father's life, after all. "Alright, damn you!" he snapped. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"Good," the man returned with no small amount of satisfaction. "Meet me at docking bay forty in two hours." He rose and began to walk away from the table.

"You _still_ won't tell me who you are?" he called after him, still exasperated.

The man stopped and turned. "DeSeve," he introduced himself at last, "Stefan DeSeve."

Tristan blinked in astonishment, and he felt his temper cool. "My mother told me about you. But I thought you were dead."

"Well, obviously I'm not. Not in _this _lifetime, anyway."

Now what was that supposed to mean? Tristan shook his head in frustration, and decided that it wasn't worth trying to figure it out at that particular time. _This pursuit is becoming more and more bizarre by the minute..._


	5. Chapter 4

**Thank you to 0afan0 for your insight and proofreading services! And thanks to thyme2read, BewilderedFemale, njmrtl, JustACrazy-Man, and all of the Star Trek characters for your reviews!**

* * *

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,  
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

Tristan approached the designated dock, still angrily puffing on his cigar. He vaguely recalled the monument erected in Stefan DeSeve's honor in the graveyard of San Mihael. It said something about how he had selflessly laid down his life in the defense of Nua Breizh.

_This_ DeSeve, on the other hand, was nothing like the way his mother had described him. That was alternate universes for you. Until this morning, he had never considered the possibility that they existed, and would have pooh-poohed the notion altogether. At least he now knew for certain that the Guardian was real.

But then there was this matter of DeSeve being in love with his mother. It didn't sit well with him. She had never mentioned _that_ part to him. He had always wondered why his father never seemed to like the man. Of course he said nothing, but his silence whenever the man's name came up indicated disapproval. The pieces were finally coming together.

"Ah, you're right on time," DeSeve said from under a repair panel. "Nice to see that you know the universe doesn't revolve around you. Your mother did a good job of raising you, kid."

"Will you please stop calling me that? I'm a grown man."

DeSeve smiled wryly. "To me, you'll always be a kid, kid."

Tristan crossed his arms, but decided not to take the bait. "So when are we leaving, and how long will it take to get there?"

"We are leaving," he looked at his chronometer, then got to his feet, "in five minutes. And we will arrive at our destination tomorrow."

"Fair enough." He put out the remainder of his cigar, sat down in one of the back seats, and cracked open his book. His mind filled with thoughts of the region of Provence and all its diversions as described by Peter Mayle. And for a while, he completely forgot his troubles.

* * *

Tristan awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee. His book had fallen to the floor and he was lying backwards with his mouth open. He rubbed his eyes. Somehow, he didn't quite remember falling asleep. But then again, he had been under a great deal of stress.

"You drink coffee?" DeSeve asked, appearing from the cockpit.

"I'm half French—what do you think?" He accepted the mug that was offered to him. To his surprise, it actually tasted as good as it smelled. Experience had previously taught him that, if he wanted a decent cup of coffee when he was not on his home world, he would have to make it himself.

DeSeve chuckled. "Surprised, 'your highness'? Yes, your mother was the one who taught me to appreciate the art of coffee. It'll be good to see her again when we get back to Nua Breizh. I wonder how much she's changed."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Oh, and I suppose latinum means nothing to you."

"Not as much as your mother, kid," he retorted, snapping out of his reverie.

"How touching."

The older man blinked. "A bit sarcastic, aren't we?"

"I get it from my father."

"Yeah, I noticed. Well, we should be there in a few hours." He meandered back to the cockpit.

* * *

A few hours later, Tristan found himself among the ruins of a vast, forgotten city that stretched beyond the horizon in all directions. He had no idea where in the Ellison system he was, and he didn't like it, but that was out of his control.

DeSeve led him onward. After a while, he stopped in front of a great upright ring of stone.

"Is this the Guardian?" Tristan asked.

"A question..." said a deep, commanding voice.

DeSeve and Tristan both started.

The portal illuminated. "Since before your sun burned hot in space, I have awaited a question. Yes, I am the Guardian of Forever, Tristan, son of Nua Breizh and Romulus."

"_Oh, la la..._" He was tempted to ask how it knew his name, but then realized that if the being could control time, the matter of knowing his name would be a simple thing.

"Guardian," he asked when he got over his awe, "I wish to change the mistake of my father's death. Can you do that?"

"I can provide you with the means of doing so, but you must perform the task yourself."

"I am prepared to do that," he said firmly. "But I need to know when and where my father was first exposed to the anomaly that led to his death."

"That event occurred on January 13, 2369, at 3:00 in the afternoon, according to the calendar used by the inhabitants of your planet; on Romulus, in the city of Rateg. The anomaly was the result of an ignorant experimentation with time by a military scientist named Taibak. Your father was in the proximity of his laboratory in the capital building when the experiment took place."

It all seemed simple enough. He needed only to keep his father away from the capital building during that time, and everything would go back to the way it was supposed to be.

A curtain of mist descended around them, and a rapid series of images appeared in the center of the portal.

"You see before you," the Guardian explained, "the history of Romulus. You may enter at any time you wish."

Tristan stood flabbergasted. However was he supposed to know when to go through? DeSeve pulled a tricorder out of his bag and began to record. After several minutes, the presentation ended.

"Do you wish me to display the timeline again?" the Guardian asked.

"Just a moment." DeSeve, who had been silent up until then, finally spoke up. "Guardian, am I permitted to travel there and back with Tristan, even though I'm not from this dimension?"

"Yes. But, if you wish for events to progress as before with regards to your alternate counterpart, you must take heed that you don't allow him to see you."

"I understand."

"You're coming, too?" Tristan asked.

The human bit his lip. "I wasn't lying when I said I love your mother. You didn't tell me your father was dead. Whether I like it or not, Lady Guinevere's happiness depends on being with him. If there's any way I can make things right for her, I will."

Tristan studied his companion, not certain whether he should believe him or not. He had been fully prepared to see the task through on his own, but it would be much easier if he had help. This man now seemed to be the Stefan that his mother had so fondly described, instead of the avaricious old mercenary he had at first thought him to be.

At last, he decided that it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Alright. Do you know when we need to jump?"

DeSeve glanced at his tricorder. "I have a close enough approximation. I may be off by a few days, though."

The youth nodded.

"But before we go," said DeSeve. "We don't have a translator. Can you speak both dialects of Romulan?"

"I learned both, yes," Tristan answered, "But I'm more familiar with the common tongue, since that's what my father always spoke to me. My mother only knows the noble speech, and she has never spoken it to me."

"So you must have spoken French as a family," the other finished. "That reminds me: stop using those French expressions. It's a dead giveaway." He turned to the portal. "Guardian, will you repeat the timeline again, please?"

"Certainly."

The images flashed before their eyes a second time.

"Get ready," said DeSeve after a few moments. "Now!"

They went through the gateway.

* * *

**Of course, I don't own Peter Mayle's works, I just mention them because I love 'em so much!**


	6. Chapter 5

**Thank you, my readers and reviewers, especially 0afan0, thyme2read, BewilderedFemale, and JustaCrazyMan!**

**Also, FYI: there's a cute bit about Tristan as a darling little boy in BewilderedFemale's latest story, "Koval Gets Comforted," for those of you who are interested! Thanks, BF!**

**Ok, y'all, these next few chapters should be able to stand on their own for the most part. **_**But,**_** you'll better appreciate the story if you've read "First Impressions, or the Bodyguard." Now I'll quit babbling and get on with the story! ;-)**

* * *

_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight  
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

* * *

Stefan DeSeve landed hard on the ground and grunted. _I'm getting too old for this._

He looked around. Thankfully, they had ended up in an alley. It was nighttime, and there weren't any people about. As far as he could tell, they hadn't been spotted. He slowly got to his feet.

Tristan of course was up in less than a second. "Not as spry as you were when you were eighty, eh?" he chuckled.

"Not as respectful to your elders as you were when you were still getting ass whippings? Eh?"

"Those never worked on me," he retorted.

DeSeve shook his head. "Why am I not surprised?"

For once, the punk kid didn't have some snappy comeback. "What now?"

"First, we need to find out what the exact date is," he began, "Once we know that, we'll have a better idea where to go from there. And we need to find better clothes so as not to attract any more attention than we already will."

The youth nodded. "Very well. Since I will draw less attention than you, perhaps you should find somewhere to wait and let me find the clothes."

"Agreed." He scanned the visible section of the street. Ah, they were in luck. "There's an entrance to a secret cave behind the next alley over. Meet me there." He was grateful for the brief period during which he was involved with Ambassador Spock and his re-unification movement.

"Right," said his companion.

"And if you're not back in an hour, I'm going to come looking for you," he added.

"I'll be back before that," Tristan promised. He strolled off whistling.

"And stop whistling!" he hissed. "Romulans don't whistle! Hands out of your pockets!"

"Oh...right." The youth grinned sheepishly.

It was going to be difficult keeping up with that whippersnapper, he realized. Not only did he have the advantage of youth, but also of being half-Romulan. He watched Tristan disappear around the corner, then gingerly made his way over to the next alley.

_Ah, Romulus_, he thought with some nostalgia, _how well I remember it. _

Not surprisingly, what he remembered best was the time he spent with Guinevere. His heart ached for that simpler time. Most of all, it ached for her.

What was he doing there? What was he thinking? That he could go back and things would be the same again? This was another life, another time. And yet...

He _had_ to see her again, even if it was only for a moment. At first, he thought that spending time with her son would help. But no—it made things worse. The boy was too much like his father, even if his mother's personality appeared every so often. If only things could have been different.

Though it had been many years since he had seen her last, he was still very much in love with her. He would do anything for her, endure anything for her. His memory of her was no less vivid than it was the day he left Nua Breizh. After the battle at San Mihael, she had chosen Bochra. DeSeve didn't even get the chance to tell her how he felt, and he didn't know how he was supposed to live without her.

It saddened him to see that things were exactly the same in this universe—except that he was dead. How he had died, he knew not. All he knew for certain was that in both cases, she had married Bochra instead of him. And she had borne Bochra's son. In both cases, DeSeve didn't even have a chance.

_Why couldn't it have been different? Why couldn't he have been _my_ son?_

He found himself on the street that led to Ambassador Tævek's home. He walked faster, and faster. He had to see her again. Then he began to think. Maybe things really _could_ be different. Maybe it wasn't such an impossible paradox. Maybe all he had to do was to prevent her from meeting Bochra.

The next thing he knew, he was standing at the garden gate behind her house.

* * *

The sights, sounds, and smells of Rateg filled Tristan's senses. To his surprise, he remembered them now. Though Nua Breizh was very dear to him, a part of his heart wished he had been raised on Romulus. The strange stirring in his soul, the call to join his father's people was never completely silenced.

_Of course you would yearn for Romulus_, his father's voice explained, _It is in your blood, as it is in mine._

His mother had told him these feelings were completely natural, and that he should seek to resolve them in order to find his inner peace.

_Will I always be so conflicted? _ In a way, he had lost both of his parents. His father to the anomaly, and his mother to the slow death of grief. But Tristan pushed those thoughts away, as they were already clouding his judgment. There was no time for them. He was on a mission.

Suddenly, two soldiers came out of another alleyway and stood in his path.

_Not good_, he thought grimly, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance.

"I've never seen you around here before," remarked a rather harsh, yet feminine voice.

He turned to see a woman with blonde hair. She was wearing a military uniform. He blinked in astonishment.

"This way," she commanded. One of the soldiers nudged him with his disruptor in the direction she had indicated. He had no choice but to comply. She led him into a building, and then into a room, which appeared to be her office. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the bright light.

"Now, first things first. Who are you?"

Curiosity paralleled his fear. Was she half-human, too? There were many people with that color hair on Nua Breizh—but on Romulus? "I…" he stammered, trying not to stare.

She smiled thinly, though there was little cheer in her expression. "My mother was human," she confirmed. "Who are you?" she repeated in a tone that would allow for no more delay.

"Tristan," he answered.

The woman narrowed her eyes.

"Yes," he said, in response to her silent question, "I am also half-human."

"Indeed," she mused. "You seem strangely familiar, Citizen Tristan," she said, "though I don't know anyone else with a human parent other than myself. What is your family name?"

_Merde!_ he thought. This really wasn't good. What if she knew his father? He would have to make something up, just to be on the safe side. "Thieurrull. I didn't catch _your_ name…" He lifted a brow.

"Commander Sela," she told him. Then she laughed slowly. It was the first genuine smile Tristan had seen from her. "So you're a commoner from one of the colony worlds, eh?" She paced around him, examining him carefully. "You're obviously not fully Romulan, but you don't look like you're half-human, either. Aside from those green eyes, of course. Which of your parents was human? Your mother?"

He returned her smile cautiously, hoping she would soon be satisfied and not ask him any more questions. "Yes." He felt an odd sensation, as though he were on thin ice, and it was about to break.

"How did they meet?" Another question. Why wouldn't she just let him go? More importantly, how the hell was he going to answer that one?

"They never told me," he said after a pause. "And every time I asked them, they said that I could not know. So I left it at that." He was ready to cut off the conversation, right then and there. But how could he get away? "What about yours?"

"My mother was a Starfleet prisoner," she said with considerable acridness. "My father loved her, but she never loved him. She betrayed him."

"Hmm," he said. "That's a shame. It was the opposite with my parents." Tristan deliberately stopped himself. He was revealing far too much information.

"I would never behave as my mother did," said Sela, her tone softening.

Tristan looked back at her. He realized he had been lost in his own thoughts of how to escape. As a result, he could not fathom what she meant by that. The part he did hear in her tone expressed that there _was_ a meaning, however. Could it be that she was coming on to him? Even with the guards there? He knew precious little about Romulan women, and the thought disturbed him.

"That is wise," was all he could think to say. The words had no sooner left his mouth when a Centurion barged through the door. At first he was relieved. The interrogation/possible pick-up attempt would be put on hold. But when he saw who the man was, he froze.

Tristan forced his jaw not to drop. Thankfully, all eyes had turned to the officer—who was none other than his father. It was like he was staring at a ghost, though he held no such superstitions.

"Commander," Bochra saluted Sela, "All is ready. We need only to—"

"Knock!" she snapped, "How many times do I have to tell you to _knock_, imbecile?"

His father's jaw tightened. "I beg forgiveness, Commander," he said evenly. "But you said to inform you at once when the Senate was to meet. It will be this afternoon."

"Very well!" Sela practically shouted. She calmed herself, and then turned to Tristan. "I have important business to prepare for, so you may go," she said, almost sweetly. "Perhaps we shall meet again?"

"I'll be around for a while," he returned. What else could he say? She was the kind of woman who didn't take no for an answer. He would have to make doubly sure not to run into her again.

Bochra apparently hadn't noticed him until he spoke. But now, he was eying him curiously. _Damn!_ He was in a tight spot. Tristan walked past him without so much as a nod. It felt so incredibly strange to behave toward his father in this less than civil manner. But Bochra said nothing, and allowed him to pass.

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief when he walked back out into the street. And then he laughed softly to himself. He would never have gotten away with that behavior back in his own time. Were he still a child, he would have been disciplined for not showing his father the proper respect. It was ironically amusing.

The rosy glow of dawn was appearing in the sky. He clasped his hands behind his back and resisted the urge to whistle as he walked toward the capital building—the capital building? He stopped in his tracks. That's where Sela and his father were going, and that meant—_this_ was probably the day his father would be exposed to the time anomaly!

There wasn't much time. And he would have to watch his back even more closely now, he realized. Bochra might begin to grow suspicious if he saw him again, assuming he wasn't already. Sela, at least, was easy enough to spot.

_Blondes_, he thought with an annoyed sigh. He had never been attracted to them, yet they were often inexplicably drawn to him. And this woman… She was definitely _not_ a lady-and that was being polite about it. Her nerve in calling his father an imbecile!

"_Pouah!_" he mumbled. Just to be on the safe side, he pulled his hood over his head, though it wasn't at all cool out.

But on the bright side, things were looking up. Above him, he spotted an obliging collection of laundry, strung out to dry. _Voila! _

* * *

The gate creaked softly when DeSeve pushed it open. He entered the garden and crept along its winding path. There was a row of bushes ahead. That was where he had often received his secret orders and assignments from N'Vek, his contact in Ambassador Spock's dissident movement. To his surprise, there were low voices coming from behind a tree instead, which was closer to the outer wall.

"Perhaps you can find out more information through his wife," suggested the first voice. That was N'Vek, he realized.

"She doesn't speak to me much," said the other, whom he immediately recognized was his alternate counterpart.

DeSeve noted the difference in meeting places with amusement. _Not everything will be exactly the same in this time_, he reminded himself. As fascinating as this experience was, however, it wasn't what he had come for.

He continued down the walkway to the illuminated fountain, which stood in the very center of the garden. With any luck, she would be there.

She was there. She was lying on the fountain ledge, looking up at the stars. The water's reflection danced across her face.

A twig cracked loudly beneath his foot. _Oh, no..._

Guinevere started, and quickly sat up. "Uhlan?" she called. Her eyes were wide in alarm.

There was nothing for it. He had to answer her, or she would call again louder. DeSeve swallowed. "I am here, my Lady," he assured her. "Forgive me for startling you. It was unintentional."

"Oh, of course," she smiled sweetly. Though there were many variations of people, places, and events, in this version of reality, Guinevere was exactly the same. She was just as wonderfully radiant as he remembered her. Her eyes still had that same spark that gave light to his own universe.

"What were you thinking about just now?" he asked.

"Well," she said reluctantly, "it's a little silly, perhaps childish."

Now it was DeSeve's turn to smile. She wasn't too many years older than Tristan, he understood. "Not at all. You can tell me," he gently prodded.

"Do you ever wonder what your future will be like?"

"Actually, I do," he answered, "All the time, in fact."

Her pretty brown eyes were filled with wonder. "Really?" Then she smiled again. "You know, this is the most you've ever spoken to me. I didn't think you'd be interested in anything I had to say."

DeSeve felt his heart swell. "You can tell me anything, my Lady—anything. I promise I will always listen to you."

It was now or never.


End file.
